Date Hate
First date. A sequence of words to strike terror in the souls of all but the most hardened.
I know countless women who cling to unsatisfactory relationships rather than risk a first date. Stilted, painful and humiliating, they’re auditions for a role you’re not even certain you want.
The coven was assembled to discuss these bizarre sociological rituals, since one of us was robust enough to give first dates a chance. Her two-year dearth on the romance front was the clincher.
She was due to meet him the following evening and needed guidance on how to behave and what to wear. ‘Be yourself,’ we urged, surely the silliest advice on the planet. ‘Be J-Lo,’ we should have suggested. That would guarantee a more interesting time.
Initially we pledged not to revisit our own first dates from hell, in case they gave her qualms. But it was difficult to honour our intentions. So we didn’t. In fact, the coven became positively competitive as we described our most crushing encounters.
Mine was with a garda detective, horrified to discover I was a journalist and convinced I was plying him for information about cases. In vain did I reassure him I was off-duty and, anyway, I’d left my Mata Hari dressing-up kit at home that day. He grew progressively more sullen, switched from beer to water in case I was trying to intoxicate him and inveigle indiscretions, and after an hour insisted I drive him home.
At least a woman would have flounced off in a taxi. It was my own fault for dating a man still living with his Mammy.
Noreen’s first date looked perfect - but he talked about hysterectomies the entire time. Then there was Sarah, whose date confided doubts about his sexuality.
Clare knew her first date with a rugby player was being kicked into touch when the pub door opened and the team walked in. Either he deliberately brought her to his local knowing the gang would be there - or he text-messaged them for support when she was in the Ladies. Ignominous, whichever way.
Kelly is the exception, a serial first dater. She insists nothing matches it for the thrill of anticipation. But she’s ruthless about leaving if there’s no chemistry. ‘My Saturday nights are precious,’ she explains crisply. ‘I’m not wasting them.’ That’s the sort of alpha female attitude to leave the rest of us in awe of Kelly.
She maintains first dates are empowering. She says it’s the ideal relationship: excitement without commitment, plus you never have a chance to grow bored by one another.
The rest of the coven is prepared to accept occasional tedium in exchange for side-stepping the dating bear-pit. But we’ve forgotten something we knew instinctively at 19 - dates are meant to be fun.
We regard them as job interviews. Your co-dater isn’t someone you can have a laugh with, you’re weighing up whether he’s an adequate life partner.
No wonder so many of our encounters turn sour.
Let’s face it, men enjoy being evaluated on their job, prospects and the car they drive no more than women relish being graded on their looks.
